


The Man With The Twisted Lip (SPN version)

by instinctively



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Benevolent Shapeshifters, Gen, Inspired by Novel, John has a good taste in women, POV Dean Winchester, Winchesters on a case, and Dean looks down her dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/instinctively/pseuds/instinctively
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam's phone rings and their help is requested, Dean expects nothing but a pointless and boring road trip to Little Missouri. But when they find themselves on a case involving one of their Dad's old friends, things start to get interesting quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man With The Twisted Lip (SPN version)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Man With The Twisted Lip](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/67035) by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 



> Okay, so I don't in any way own the story. The plot was written by Arthur Conan Doyle, only alternated by me and squeezed into the Supernatural universe.

Dean Winchester was damn tired when they hit Montana, between the endless drive and the massive demon attack they’ve just had, it was already 2 a.m and all he wanted was a hot shower and a comfy bed.

As he turned “The Unforgiven” by Metallica up a little, Sam’s phone began to ring. The sharp ringtone cut through the song and Dean groaned in frustration. “Not your bloody college friend again, please.”

Sam just grinned and picked up. “Yeah, this is Sam Winchester speaking? …Just gone past Glendive, Montana at the moment… Why, what’s up?” he looked at Dean in a way that expressed his apology. “Oh my god…yup of course, Amy…Speak to you later, bye!”

Dean pulled over to the right side of the road and looked at his brother, already accepting that it was going to be a  
restless night again.

"Okay, so, Amy just called, her boyfriend Brandon hasn’t been home in a few days, and she didn’t know what to do so she called me," Sam explained, marking their new destination on the map.

Dean just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be surprised, that’s always the way, isn’t it? People who are in grief or need help come to you like birds to a friggin’ light-house.”

Sam shrugged, “Whatever, man. Let’s go.”

Dean started up the Impala again, turning up the music. This was the last time he would help out one of Sam’s friends, he swore to himself. He hadn’t slept well in what felt like a month, he needed some rest. And on top of it all he heard his brother snoring next to him a few minutes later.

Two hours later they arrived somewhere in Little Missouri at the opium den, the place where Sam’s friend’s boyfriend allegedly had gone missing. It was a two level building with almost no windows, surrounded by piles of garbage.

Dean could even spot a few sleeping bags between the rubbish, but he didn’t look closer, he really didn’t want to know. Instead, he punched his brother’s shoulder to wake him up.

They walked into the opium den, finding exactly what Dean had expected. Pale, thin blokes huddled against the walls, some absently staring at the ceiling, some asleep.

Sam looked down on his phone for a second and then went to one of the addicts to ask where Brandon was. “Brandon?” the man exclaimed, “Brandon Willis?”

There was a movement from behind some sleeping bags and through the smoke came a guy staggering towards them. When he looked at Sam, his eyes widened. “Sam Winchester! What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

Dean smirked to himself and walked off, leaving the other two to their conversation. While he was just walking past some hooded figures, his phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket and clicked it. It displayed a message he’d received from his father. “Take three steps foreward, and then look behind you,” was all it said.

The older Winchester, as usual, did what he was told and when he turned around he saw the one person he would never had expected to meet here.

"Dad?!" he almost shouted, but his father made him lower his voice quickly. "Shh, no-one knows that I’m here, and no-one may," he said, putting on his hood again so nobody could really see his face.

"Where’s Sammy?" he then asked.

"Just ‘round the corner, we came here to help one of his friends," Dean replied. 

“Good, send this friend home then, and come to the motel with me, I need your help.”

For Dean, it was out of the question to refuse any of Dad’s orders, as he had been raised that way. So he obeyed, told Sam to catch Brandon a taxi and let Dad drive the Impala to the motel he was staying at for the night.

When they arrived, they walked into his room and sat down on the bed. Dean looked at Dad, then at his brother, then back at Dad.

He was getting impantient because _damn_ , he wanted to know what this was all about.

Finally, Dad started talking. “Have you read the rumours about Neville St. Clair in the papers, boys?”

The older Winchester nodded, “The lawyer who was seen in the opium den by his wife, right?”

Sam raised his eyebrows, looking stupid as ever. He hadn’t read about it, for sure.

The corners of Dad’s mouth turned up slightly as he replied, “Exactly. It’s a simple thing, that. Mrs St. Clair sees her husband which she thinks of as a good man in the same opium den that we were just in. She is in shock, calls the police and they all go into the room she had seen her husband in from the window earlier. But he isn’t there. After searching through the room for a while, a parsel is found, that is addressed to Mr St. Clair, therefore definitely belongs to him. Also they found some clothes of him, y’know, the whole thing, boots, socks, pants and all that. The lodger Hugh Boone, a dirty old beggar who lived in that exact room, has been arrested. Yeah, so much for the police report in the papers.”

"Also," Dean cut in, "I have read that Mr St. Clair’s coat has been found in a river, downed with quite a lot of money. When it came up recently, I didn’t know it was one of your cases, though."

Dad looked down to his hands and then up to him again, “I owe Sarah a favor, Sarah St. Clair, I mean. She came to me because the police wouldn’t help her, now that they assume her husband has been drowned by this beggar. They think, case closed, murderer arrested, everything’s fine. But she wants to find out more and that’s why I’m here.”

"So, do you have any idea what we’re dealing with? Or is it just ordinary murder?" Sam asked.

"No idea, no," Dad replied, shaking his head and Dean felt sorry for him because he’d never seen him so helpless.

“Is there any connection between the victim and the murderer?” his younger brother continued.

"For god’s sake, man," Dean said, looking at Sam, "We have no idea, okay?" 

Sam rolled his eyes and wrote down things on his notebook Dean struggled to read because of his handwriting. “‘What was husband doing at opium den? What happened to him? Where’s he now? Connection?’” he read out, “Is that everything? ‘Cause I suggest we go and ask Mrs St. Clair, guys.”

A good 30 minutes later Dean pulled up the Impala in front of a large villa which stood in what seemed like the posh area of Little Missouri. He would just love to own a house like this, big and white with stucco ornaments around the front door, or better said the gate. As they approached, it flew open, and a little blonde woman stood there, with a very pink dress that just covered her breasts enough to count as a dress. It complimented her beautifully shaped body, and the colour brought out her so _very_ blue eyes. He had to admit, his Dad had a good taste in women.

"Well? Anything?" she asked instead of a greeting, her eyes stopping to shine when they met Dean’s instead of her husband’s who she’d apparently expected. 

"Nothing, sorry," Dad said.

"Bad news?"

"No."

"Thank God for that. But come on in, boys. You must be tired, for you have had a long day, haven’t you?"

"Those are my boys, Sam and Dean, they are on the case as well, so anything you can say in front of me, you can say in front of them, too."

They followed Sarah into the living room where she opened a bottle of beer for each of them as they sat down. 

"So…do you…I mean you all, you have seen the place and I mean…honestly now John, do you think he’s dead?"

"I do," Dad simply said and Dean felt sorry for her. He always had this weird instinct of protecting people, especially women and especially when they were pretty.

Sam looked between him and their father. “I am really sorry about your husband, but we need to carry on with our investigations, I hope you understand. So if you don’t mind -,” he paused for a second, but carried on when he saw her nod, “Okay, great. So, did your husband ever talk about a Hugh Boone?”

"Never," she answered, holding back her tears.

"Did he ever show any signs of having taken drugs?" Dean asked as his brother wrote down everything.

"Never."

"In your marriage, have you, ever, noticed something weird or even strange about your husband?"

Sarah tilted her head in thought and then said, “Strange? He always kept his receipts, bloody hell he held a whole bunch of 'em," she laughed breathlessly, but shook her head, "No, but I don’t think that counts…"

She paused, her brows furrowing in thought. "Well, there is one thing I never quite understood about him.”

"And what’s that?" Dean asked, leaning forward expectantly.

"He always refused to take photos or videos of him, though he wasn’t bad-looking at all, I never got that."

And that was the moment of the case every hunter was looking forward to. They all exchanged a look, eyebrows raised, because finally an idea formed in all of their heads. An idea of what they were dealing with. 

"Is there any footage of him that you could show to us?" Dad asked.

"Barely, maybe some old tapes" she replied, then got up and rummaged in a box of videotapes. When she found what she had been searching for, a grey videotape with the writing ‘Prom’ on the side, she smiled and put it into the VCR. A shaky, blurry video appeared on the TV.

"That’s Zack, there in the middle," she explained, "Oh, and that’s Neville," she pointed at a stereotypical 80s guy dancing like a jerk. But when he turned around to the camera, his eyes flared up in a bright yellow and Dean saw Sarah’s eyes widen for a moment. She’d obviously never been confronted with any kinds of demons, spirits or other supernatural creatures, which wasn't unexpected, but always amusing to the older Winchester, as he had practically grown up hunting them.

"Wow, I really thought, I’d never see a Shifter again," Dad muttered, more to himself, but when he saw Sarah’s confused expression he explained, "Shapeshifters. I told you, that this could be something out of the ordinary, but I wasn’t quite sure back then. Shapeshifters are creatures that can change their form so as to appear as any person living, dead, or fictional and they have purely human drives that have ranged from jealously, greed and loneliness. Considering he hasn't made any attempts to harm you, he must be benevolent which is always good but, ah, I am afraid your dear husband isn't human, he's a Shapeshifter.”

"The good thing," Dean added, "is, that Neville St. Clair didn’t die, he simply changed his skin to…" he gasped, when the idea popped into his mind, "Oh my god, of _course_ he changed into a lodger, because he didn’t want to be recognised again!"

"Hugh Boone," Sam whispered with a grin. 

"Wait, wait, boys, I’m not so fast at this as you are, okay? When you say he's that... thing-" 

"Shapeshifter," Dad helped her with a patient smile.

"Yes, that. How is that even possible, I mean, I never- Does this mean I’ve been married to a Shapeshifter, a monster, for seven years now?" Her eyes were widened, more confused than actually worried.

"Practically…yes," Dean smirked slightly, "But, he himself hasn’t changed a bit, it’s just the skin that moved, and it can move again, you know."

"And what about him? Are you sure he isn’t dead? Is he okay?"

Dad nodded, “He is alright, I swear, it’s just the skin. We were gonna go to the prison they brought Hugh Boone in anyway, so if you want you can come with us, then come. Together as a family, we’ll find a way to get him out there, won’t we?”

Sam rolled his eyes like the typical little brother he was but he cheered up quickly when he saw Dad’s warning face. Dean grinned. Sam would never grow up, he thought.

And driving towards the sunrise, they sat in the Impala, singing along to Metallica, with the duty to free a Shapeshifter from prison.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
